Her Own Prince Charming. Eva Rutland

serving them, she supposed she should, like Mr. McCoy, quietly withdraw. She chuckled. The only difficulty might be in finding her way to the galley.

      Meanwhile, what had Ruth said? Yep, this was a good chance to see how the other half lives.

      The sofa curving around the conversational area in one corner of the room was cushioned in shades of blue, somehow reminiscent of the tossing waves of the sea. The table centering the area held a big bowl of chrysanthemums that seemed to catch their color from the sunlit coastline displayed in the oversize picture on the wall. Everything spoke of good taste and money. She spotted a door, which she opened to a bedroom also tastefully done in shades of ocean blue.

      Just as she started in, she felt the roll of the boat beneath her feet. They were off! Whoever she was to serve might come in at any moment, and she didn’t want to be caught peeking. She quickly shut the door.

      Just in time, she thought, as she heard the click of the card key and saw the other door open. She was standing at attention when he came in.

      The prince himself.

      Of course. Who else? Why hadn’t it occurred to her before? Anybody who would sneak a servant he didn’t even know on to a dance floor where she should not be would think nothing of sneaking away from his own guests to have a private rendezvous with...how had Ruth put it? His present interest.

      She was surprised at her own indignation. Why should she care what he did, when and with whom?

      Curiosity got the best of her, and she looked beyond him. Where was she?

      “Hello, again,” he said.

      Her gaze flew to him. She had been too immersed in speculation to remember that he might recognize her.

      She played it straight. “Good evening, sir. May I get you something? A drink or—”

      “Allow me.” He took the champagne from the ice bucket, uncorked it with practiced dexterity and poured two glasses. He handed one to her, touched it with his own. “To us.”

      What was going on? She set the glass down. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t drink while working.”

      “You are not working. Tonight you are my guest.”

      “I—I . . . Beg pardon?” What kind of game was this?

      “I said tonight you are my guest. So, please...” He pulled out a chair and smiled.

      She did not move.

      “Come now,” he coaxed. “I’ve gone to a deal of trouble to arrange this bit of time. Let’s relax and enjoy.”

      She saw the mischief lurking in his eyes. Remembered all she had heard of him.

      She didn’t like this arrangement. Didn’t like being alone with a well-known lover boy, somewhere out in the Pacific, in his private quarters at the top of his yacht, locked...

      Locked? Her throat felt dry. She moved to the door. It swung easily open, and she felt a flush of shame.

      “You’re not going to run away again, are you, Cinderella?” he asked, laughing.

      Anger replaced the shame. “My name is not Cinderella.”

      “Oh? But you did run away at the stroke of midnight. Deserted—”

      She was halfway out the door, but he blocked her way. “Wait. Don’t go. Why are you so angry?”

      “I’m not angry. I just—” She bit back the words don’t intend to be one of your easy pickups. “I don’t indulge in fairy-tale games, Mr. Vandercamp.”

      “This isn’t a game.”

      “Whatever you call it, I don’t like it. I came here to work, and I find myself tricked into . . . into this!” Her gesture expressed what she couldn’t bring herself to say.

      “What’s wrong with this? How else was I to find you?”

      “What?”

      “No name. No place of residence. I didn’t even know where you worked. Naturally I assumed you were in the employ of the Moodys, and made several calls there. Saw no trace of you. It was only by lucky chance that during one of these visits, Sam, Moody’s son, dropped a hint. The costume ball was served by an outfit called Harry’s Catering Service. So—”

      Paula, who had been fascinated into silence as much by his clipped British accent as his rapid words, broke in. “So why didn’t you just ask Harry? That would have been simple.”

      “You think so? Of course I considered that avenue. But it seems Mr. Harry is reluctant to release information concerning his employees, ostensibly for their protection but, I surmise, more for his own. According to my father, one hates to have key personnel stolen from one.”

      “Oh.”

      “And what could I say? Blond hair...no, more gold than blond. Laughing blue eyes. About five foot four, with a just-right figure. Great dancer... light as a feather in my arms.” His mouth twitched. “Such a description might have a certain . . . well, unsavory connotation. I would not like to create such an impression. You do understand?”

      “Of course.” In spite of herself, her lips curved in accord with his infectious grin.

      “Likewise, the idea of a detective was abhorrent to me. As if I were in pursuit of a criminal or had some devious intent.”

      “Yes, that would be rather tacky,” she said, entering into the game.

      “Right. So you see why there’s a party aboard the Renegade tonight. And why it’s being catered by . . . guess who?”

      She stared at him. “All that trouble. All these people. Why?”

      “I just told you. I was having the devil of a time. I didn’t know your name. Still don’t, incidentally. Nor—”

      “No. I mean why did you want to find me?”

      The question seemed to puzzle him. He hesitated, smiled. “We do dance well together, don’t we?”

      “That’s no reason.”

      “It’s a beginning. There may be other things we do well together. Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

      Again she saw the mischief in his eyes. “I . . . I don’t think—”

      “Oh, don’t be so wary. I am a gentleman. And,” he added quickly as if he just remembered, “there was another reason I had to find you. I had something of yours that I was anxious to return to you. See?” He reached into his pocket and held it out to her.

      “My necklace! You found it.” She was genuinely pleased.

      “Actually, you left it with me when you withdrew. The chain snapped and—”

      “And you had it fixed. No, replaced it,” she corrected, examining the new chain, a little heavier and obviously more expensive. Some basic rule about accepting expensive jewelry from a man... Maybe she ought not to accept. But she was so pleased to have it back. She looked at him, her face glowing. “Thank you. It’s very special to me.”

      He touched the small charm. “You like horses?”

      “Oh, yes!”

      “I knew it! A lady after my own heart.” He took her arm and ushered her to the table. “Sit down. Let’s eat, drink and be merry while finding what else we have in common.”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Vandercamp. I do appreciate what you’ve done, but—”

      He picked up her glass and handed it to her. “My name’s Brad. What’s yours?”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      “YOU’VE hardly touched this,” he said later, as he removed their salad plates. “Aren’t you hungry?”

      “Oh.